Persuasion (6 page)

Everyone knew that London was filled with agents and spies, and soon it would have another one.

The reach of the Terror was vast. The vengeful serpent was inside Great Britain now.

Simon downed half the whiskey. He did not know how long he could play this double-edged game without losing his own head. Lafleur wanted information about the Allied war effort as swiftly as possible—before the anticipated invasion of Flanders. And that meant he would have to return to London immediately, as he would not learn any valuable state secrets in Cornwall.

But he was a patriot. He had to be very careful not to give away any information that was truly important for the Allied war effort. And at the very same time, Warlock wanted him to uncover what French secrets he could. He might even want Simon to return to Paris. It was a tightrope, indeed. But in the end, he would do what he had to do—because he was determined to protect his sons. He would give up the state for them; he would die for them if need be.

The baby cried again.

And he simply snapped. He threw the glass at the wall, where it shattered. Damn Elizabeth, for leaving him with her bastard! And then he covered his face with his hands.

And he began to cry. He wept for his sons, because they had loved their mother and they needed her still. He wept for Danton and all of his relations who had been victims of
le Razor.
He wept for those he did not know—rebels and royalists, nobles and priests, old men, women and children...the rich and the poor, for these days, it was guilt by suspicion or just association, and the poor wound up without their heads as well, when they were as innocent as his sons.... And he supposed he even cried for that damned bastard child, because she had nothing and no one at all—just like him.

And then he laughed through his tears. The bastard had Amelia Greystone.

Why had she come to the service, damn it! Why had she barged into his home? Why hadn’t she changed at all? Damn her! So much had changed. He had changed. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore!

He cursed Amelia again and again, because he lived in darkness and fear, and he knew that there was no way out and that the light she offered was an illusion.

* * *

“A
MELIA
,
DEAR
,
WHY
are you packing up my clothing?”

Two days had passed since the funeral. Amelia had never been as preoccupied. As she prepared to close up the house, her mind kept straying from the tasks at hand. Frankly, she had been worrying about Grenville’s children ever since the funeral. She was going to have to call upon them and make certain that all was well.

She smiled at Momma, who was lucid now. They were standing in the center of her small, bare bedchamber, a single window looking out over the muddy front lawns. “We are going to spend the spring in town,” she said cheerfully. But she wasn’t truly cheerful. She realized she was reluctant to leave Cornwall now. She would not be able to offer comfort to those children if she were miles and miles away.

Garrett’s heavy footfall sounded in the corridor outside of Momma’s bedchamber. Amelia paused as the heavyset manservant appeared on the threshold of the room. “You have a caller, Miss Greystone. It is Mrs. Murdock, from St. Just Hall.”

Amelia’s heart lurched. “Momma, wait here! Is anything wrong?” she cried, already dashing past the Scot and racing down the hall.

“She seems rather distressed,” Garrett called after her. He did not follow her as he knew his duty well; Momma was almost never left alone.

The gray-haired governess was pacing in the great hall, back and forth past the two red-velvet chairs that faced the vast stone hearth. A huge tapestry was hanging on an adjacent wall, over a long, narrow wooden bench with carved legs. The floors were stone, and covered with old rugs. But a new, very beautiful, gleaming piano was in one corner of the room, surrounded by six equally new chairs with gilded legs and gold seats. The instrument and the chairs were a gift from the dowager Countess of Bedford, recently given to Julianne.

Mrs. Murdock did not have anyone with her.

Amelia realized she had secretly hoped that the governess had brought the baby. She dearly wished to see and hold her again. But her disappointment was foolish. The child hardly needed to drive through the chilly Cornish countryside.

“Good day, Mrs. Murdock. This is such a pleasant surprise,” she began, when she wished to demand if anything was amiss.

Mrs. Murdock hurried toward her as Amelia left the stairs, and tears quickly arose. “Oh, Miss Greystone, I am at a loss, we all are!” she cried. She seized Amelia’s hands.

“What has happened?” Amelia said with dread.

“St. Just Hall is in a state,” she declared, her second chin wobbling. “We cannot get on!”

Amelia put her arm around her and realized she was trembling, she was that agitated. “Come, sit down and tell me what is wrong,” she said soothingly.

“The baby cries day in and day out. She is hardly nursing now! The boys have decided to do as they please—they are running wild! They will not attend the classroom, they defy Signor Barelli, they are running about the grounds, as ill-mannered as street urchins. Yesterday Lord William took a hack out—by himself—and he was gone for hours and hours! And we could not find John—as it turned out, he had gone into the attics and hid!” She started to cry. “If they did not need me so, I would leave such a horrid place.”

She hadn’t said a word about Grenville. “The boys are surely grieving. They are good boys, I saw that, they will soon stop misbehaving.” Amelia meant her every word.

“They miss their mother, we all do!” She choked on a sob.

Amelia clasped her shoulder. “And his lordship?”

Mrs. Murdock stopped crying. A moment passed before she said, “The earl has locked himself in his rooms.”

Amelia tensed. “What do you mean?”

“He has not come out of his apartments since the funeral, Miss Greystone.”

* * *

A
N
HOUR
LATER
, A
MELIA
FOLLOWED
Mrs. Murdock into St. Just Hall, shaking the rain from her coat. It was so silent inside the marble-floored foyer that she could have heard a pin drop. Outside, the rain beat down on the windows and the roof. For that, she was somewhat thankful, as it drowned out the sound of her thundering heart.

Keeping her voice low, she said, “Where are the children?”

“When I left, they had both gone outdoors. Of course, it is raining now.”

If the boys were still outside, they would become terribly ill. A liveried manservant appeared and Amelia handed him her soaking wet coat. “What is your name, sir?” she asked firmly.

“Lloyd,” he said, bowing.

“Are the boys within?”

“Yes, madam, they came in an hour ago, when it began to rain.”

“Where were they?”

“I suspect they were in the stables—they were covered with hay, and they both had an odor.”

At least they were safely within. She glanced at Mrs. Murdock, who was apparently awaiting her lead. Amelia cleared her throat. Her heart raced even more swiftly. “And his lordship?”

A look of dismay flitted across the servant’s face. “He remains inside his rooms, madam.”

She inhaled nervously and said, “Tell him Miss Greystone has called.”

Lloyd hesitated, as if considering an objection. Amelia nodded with encouragement and he left. Suddenly Mrs. Murdock said, “I will send for tea.” She fled.

Amelia realized that they were all fearful of Grenville. Mrs. Murdock had not exaggerated, then. She began to pace. How could he lock himself in his rooms? On the drive over, Mrs. Murdock had revealed an astonishing and disturbing fact: he had not seen his children since the funeral, either.

That was so very wrong. It was selfish!

The servant appeared several moments later. He flushed and said, “I do not believe his lordship is receiving, Miss Greystone.”

“What did he say?”

“He did not answer the door.”

Amelia hesitated. If he would not come downstairs to speak with her, she would have to go upstairs to speak to him. Filled with trepidation, she fought for courage and looked at Lloyd. “Take me to his rooms.”

Blanching, the servant nodded and led her into the corridor and up the stairs.

They paused before a heavy teakwood door. Lloyd was even paler now, and Amelia hoped Grenville wouldn’t dismiss him for his audacity in bringing her to his rooms. She whispered, “Perhaps you should go.”

He fled.

Her heart slammed. But there was no choice, so she lifted her hand and knocked sharply on his door.

There was no response. She rapped on the door again.

When only silence greeted her efforts, she took a fist and pounded on the door. “Grenville! Open up!”

There was still no response, although she thought she heard a footstep. “Grenville!” She pounded on the door several times. “It is Amelia Greystone. I wish to—”

And the door was flung open.

Amelia did not finish her sentence. Simon stood before her, clad only in an unbuttoned shirt and his breeches. Half of his very muscular chest was revealed. He wore no stockings, no shoes. There was a great deal of bearded growth upon his face, and his hair was loose. Dark and nearly black, it reached his shoulders.

He stared at her unpleasantly.

She did not know what she had expected, but she had not expected him to greet her in such a disheveled state. And now she smelled the whiskey. “Grenville... Thank you for coming to the door,” she stammered.

His mouth began to curl. His eyes darkened. “Amelia. Have you come to save my soul?” He laughed softly. “I must warn you, I cannot be saved, not even by you.”

Amelia did not move. His dark eyes were smoldering; she recognized the look. Worse, her own heart was rioting. And she was briefly speechless.

What could he possibly be thinking?

He was smiling seductively. “You are wet. Come in...if you dare.”

She had heard that tone before. Did he intend to flirt? Or worse, seduce her?

His smile widened. “Surely I am not frightening you?”

She fought for her composure. She had come to see him because his household was in a state, and there was no one in charge. His children needed him. They had to be cared for!

Some sanity returned. He had never looked as dangerous, or as dissipated—he had been drinking, excessively. They were facing one another over the threshold of his sitting room. She finally glanced inside. It was in a horrific condition. The pillows that belonged on the sofa were on the floor. Drinking glasses, some empty, some partly full, were on the various tabletops. A lamp was on the floor, broken in pieces. So was a mirror.

Several of the decanters on the sideboard were empty. There were empty wine bottles there, as well. There was also a dark red stain on the pale blue wall by the fireplace. And finally, she saw broken glass on the floor.

He was inebriated—and he had been in a rage. Obviously he had broken the lamp, the mirror and God only knew what else. “What can you be thinking?” she cried, overcome with genuine concern.

His eyes widened but she was already shoving past him. Then she turned and slammed his door. She did not want any of his staff to see the condition his rooms were in, or worse, the condition he was in.

“Let me guess,” he said in that purr again. “You wish to be alone with me.”

She trembled, wishing he would cease flirting. “Hardly!” she snapped. “I do hope you are proud of yourself.” She marched to the scattered pillows, retrieved them, and tidied up the sofa. But even as angry as she was becoming, her heart was racing wildly. She did not like being alone with him like this. He was far too masculine—far too intriguing.

“What are you doing?”

She knelt and began collecting glass, using her skirts as an apron. “I am tidying up, Grenville.” She decided not to look his way. Maybe he would close his shirt.

“There are maids who clean this house.”

She refused to turn, but the image of him, more unclothed than not, remained fresh and graphic in her mind. “I don’t want anyone to see your rooms like this.” She stood and went to the trash can and emptied her skirt into it. Then she knelt to begin picking up the shards of the broken mirror.

The next thing she knew, he was clasping her shoulders as he knelt behind her and her body was spooned into his. “You are not a housemaid, Amelia, you are my guest,” he murmured.

Amelia couldn’t move. Her mind became utterly blank. His body was large and male, hard and strong, and she felt tiny, pressed against him as she was. Her heart was rioting so wildly that she could not breathe.

“Amelia,” he said softly, and she felt his lips against her cheek.

“Release me!” she cried, struggling to stand and get free.

“I thought you liked it when I held you,” he whispered into her ear. He did not release her; he did not allow her to stand.

Impossibly, desire flamed. She felt the urgency in every part of her body, in every fiber of her being. “You are intoxicated,” she accused.

“Yes, I am. And I had forgotten just how tiny and beautiful you are, and how perfectly you fit in my arms.”

Panic gave her unusual strength—or he was done toying with her. Amelia wrenched free. She leaped to her feet as he slowly stood to tower over her. She faced him, defiantly. “What can you possibly be thinking?” she cried.

“I am thinking that you are so pretty, and that we are alone.” He was amused. “You are blushing.”

“I am old!” What had he been doing? Had he tried to embrace her? Had she felt his mouth on her cheek?

Had he kissed her?

She backed away. Coming into his rooms had been a mistake, she realized that now. “Do not touch me again!” she warned.

His dark eyes gleamed. “You entered at your own risk.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you know as well as I do that I am not to be trusted.”

She did not know what to say. He had just made a very direct reference to his courtship of her—and his betrayal. She stood there with her backside against the sideboard, trying to regain her breath. His hands fisted and found his hips. He stared at her, unsmiling, unmoving. She despaired, because now she had the vast opportunity to ogle the hard planes of his chest, the angles of his ribs and to notice that he did not have an ounce of fat upon him. He was leaner than he had been at the age of twenty-one. He was, undoubtedly, too thin.